In the morning I dropped Morgan off at the Don. Instead of going for a run, I showered and spent the next couple of hours walking the beach, mulling everything she’d said the night before. Gradually, I made my way back to her hotel. As I approached, I noticed the beach was unusually crowded, despite the early hour. I thought nothing of it until I realized that it had to do with the girls’ recording session.
There must have been several hundred people behind the hotel, mostly teenage girls. Pulling up TikTok, I realized that all four of them—and their group account—had posted multiple times in the last few days, offering previews of their rehearsals, along with behind-the-scenes footage of them putting on makeup or goofing around in the hotel room. All of it was accompanied by callouts announcing when and where they would perform their next routine and inviting people to attend.
Still, I was amazed by the level of genuine fandom. While I’d known they were popular, for whatever reason it hadn’t registered that hundreds of people would actually take time out of their day to attend one of their recordings in person.
I texted Morgan to let her know I had arrived, continuing to marvel at the size of the crowd. After a few minutes she responded, asking if I would be able to help them film, to which I readily agreed.
Noon came and went, but there was still no sign of the girls. The crowd, however, kept trickling in, dozens more making their way down the beach. I scouted the area, trying to figure out the best vantage point from which to record the performance, before realizing that I had no idea where to even start.
I eventually heard a buzz rise from the crowd nearest the hotel. Despite being taller than most of the younger fans, I was able to catch only glimpses of the girls’ hair as they milled around on the deck near the sand, probably trying to figure out where to take up positions. Hundreds of phones waved in the air, everyone jockeying to get photos.
The four of them stayed on the deck for several minutes, taking selfies with the fans and signing autographs, while I tried to edge closer. Finally realizing that it was impossible, I went around to the front of the hotel and walked through the interior to reach the pool area. As soon as the girls spotted me, I saw relief on their faces.
“This is crazy!” Morgan exclaimed when I was close. “None of us imagined it would be like this. We weren’t sure if anyone would show up, let alone this many people.”
“We can’t figure out how to clear enough space on the beach for us, either,” Stacy fretted.
“Why don’t you just perform on the deck?”
“I don’t think the hotel will be happy about that….” Maria’s brows were knitted with worry.
“You’re guests,” I pointed out, “so you’re allowed to be here on the deck. And it’s only three songs, right? It’ll be over before anyone at the hotel even knows what’s going on.”
The four of them conferred briefly, then decided that my idea was the most workable solution. Holly and Stacy set their totes off to the side and returned with two complex cameras, along with tripods that they mounted just off the deck. Maria and Morgan put two of their phones on tripods, as well. Meanwhile, Holly handed me a third camera as she set a boom box in place.
“Your job will be to push the crowd back just a bit and to get some footage of the audience, okay? For B roll, so we can edit it in later. And turn on the music when I give you the signal.”
“Got it,” I said, taking the camera.
As the girls double-checked their outfits and makeup, occasionally stretching to loosen up, I ushered the crowd a few steps back from the deck. I also asked the people in front to sit, so that people in the back would be able to see, and to my surprise the first few rows lowered themselves to the sand. Meanwhile, Holly told me where to stand and gave me instructions on the kind of shots she wanted—basically a mixture of wide-angle shots and close-ups of the fans. I moved closer to the boom box, while the girls took their positions.
The crowd quieted almost immediately. I pressed play, startled by the volume of the boom-box speakers. At least the girls could be sure that everyone heard the music. I began filming the crowd, observing Morgan and her friends from the corner of my eye. Naturally, the girls were perfectly in sync as they launched into their intricately choreographed routine. As polished and poised as they all were, I felt that I could have been watching the Super Bowl halftime show.
The crowd went crazy, and I captured lots of video of girls trying to mimic the moves they liked or losing themselves in the music, inventing moves of their own. In all, Morgan and her friends danced for more than ten minutes.
When they finished, the crowd clapped and cheered, some of the teenagers calling out individual girls’ names. “Morgan, over here!” “Stacy, we love you!” I shot video of Morgan and her friends teaching some of their fans various moves while on the deck, but, conscious of the other hotel guests’ blocked access to the beach, the girls soon wrapped things up, asking me to collect the equipment. I did, grabbing the boom box last. With a quick wave and a thank-you and a flurry of blown kisses, Morgan and her friends retreated through the pool area, with me trailing behind like an overloaded packhorse.
It was midafternoon by the time we ventured out again to the pool area. Snagging chairs on the far side, I rounded up some towels. When the waitress came by, the girls ordered a pitcher of strawberry margaritas, along with five glasses. Apparently, it was time to celebrate.
It was then that I heard my phone vibrating on the small table beside the lounge chairs. Recognizing the name of my general manager, I put the phone to my ear.
Not thirty seconds later I walked away from the girls, the blood draining from my face.
In less than a minute, I felt almost sick, and by the time I hung up, I felt as though my world had come crashing down. I quickly dialed my sister, but there was no answer. The girls must have seen my expression when I finally returned to the chairs, because Morgan jumped up immediately and grabbed my hand.
“What happened? Who was that? What’s wrong?”
Lost in my own racing thoughts, I could barely get the words out.
“Toby,” I said. “The general manager at the farm. He told me that my aunt Angie had a stroke.”
Morgan’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! Is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ve got to get home….”
“Now?”
“My sister isn’t answering her phone.”
“So?”
I swallowed, praying that she hadn’t answered because she was with my aunt at the hospital. But I couldn’t help reliving the past, wondering if the worst was yet to come.
“She hasn’t called me, either.”
“What does that mean?”
With fear taking root, I could barely process her question. “Nothing good.”
In a daze, I kissed Morgan goodbye and ran back to my truck before gunning it to the condo. I tossed everything I’d brought into the truck and was on the highway less than ten minutes later.
In a normal situation, I was eleven hours from home.
I hoped to make it in less than nine.
With my foot mashed on the accelerator, I sped over the causeway to Tampa, Toby on speakerphone.
“Walk me through it again,” I said. “From the beginning.”
I’d known Toby all my life, and while he had always seemed unflappable, I could hear the strain in his voice.
“It was Tuesday morning,” he said after a beat, “and Angie was in the office when I arrived, just like normal. I updated her on the repairs to the irrigation system—we’ve been working on that—and then we met with the contractor at the greenhouse to go over the expansion plans. That took about an hour. After that, she went back to the office, and she appeared to be fine. If I’d known or even suspected something was wrong…”
“I’m not blaming you,” I assured him. “Then what happened?”
“Xavier went to see her right before lunch. There was a problem with the Mopack,” he said, referring to the egg-packaging equipment, “and he noticed that something was wrong with her eye. It was kind of drooping, and when he asked her about it, she mixed up her words. He was scared enough to call me, so I hurried over. Right away it was clear there was something wrong with her, so I called for an ambulance. When they arrived, they said she was having a stroke, so they rushed her to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I assumed that Paige told you,” he replied, obviously flustered. “I called her right after I called for the ambulance, and she rushed over. She followed them to the hospital, and I know she was there while your aunt had surgery. As far as I know, that’s where she’s been ever since. I’m sorry.”
I realized that I was gripping the wheel so hard that my fingers were turning white, and I tried to force myself to relax.
“Surgery?”
“To remove the clot,” he clarified. “That’s what Paige said, anyway.”
“How’s my aunt doing now?”
“I haven’t spoken to the doctors—”
“When you’ve seen her, I mean,” I interrupted. “Is she conscious? Is she in ICU?”
“According to Paige, the surgery went well. Angie’s not in the ICU. She’s awake, but the left side of her face is partially paralyzed, so it’s hard to understand her sometimes. And her left arm and leg are really weak.”
“Is Paige with her? Right now?”